


A Brief Guide to Galactic Poetry

by Fionavar



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Essay, Gen, Headcanon, I know that doesn't make much sense, Non-Fiction Fanfiction, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/pseuds/Fionavar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I began by headcanoning what poetry might look like in the various Mass Effect species on a quiet day at work. Then I started writing it down, which turned into an essay written by a human in the Mass Effect universe, exploring other cultures' poetry for a human audience. With examples. Things got out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brief Guide to Galactic Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> This is possibly the most ridiculously nerdy thing I've ever written. I really enjoyed doing it, but I'm under no illusions that other people will enjoy it particularly. Apart from anything else, my in-character narrator is a little on the pretentious side. I am also a little uncertain that my poetry theory is sound, so please feel free to correct me.  
> My thanks to bettydice (BettyKnight), for allowing me to borrow Bounty.

**Introduction**  
As a poet and scholar of poetry, it is my honour to present this brief paper on the poetry tradition of the other species of our galaxy. This is only an overview, and in some cases nothing more than a criminal simplification, but a fuller exploration of the question will be available when my book is published next year.

Firstly, let me explain my position, with the appropriate caveats and warnings. I am a human, working mainly within a small subset of the myriad and somewhat chaotic traditions of English-language poetry. I therefore use human terms and similes to define non-human art in this extract. Furthermore, I do not feel entirely qualified to discuss the traditional forms of other human cultures, let alone those of aliens, but I am emboldened because I feel this is truly necessary for mutual understanding, and nobody else has yet stepped up to do it.

Why is it necessary? We have come from very different worlds, finding each other in the wide starswept plains between them. Our words have no more in common than do our bloods and proteins, our shapes and systems; what is life for one is death to another. We are very different... and yet, so alike. We all breathe, we eat and breed. We dream and think and wonder. We live.

And almost every culture yet discovered, every species, has an art form composed of carefully-patterned communication, distinct from everyday speech. Poetry is practically universal, and allowing for our different natures, so are its themes. The poems of other races may be different to ours, but they are not truly alien.

Translation, nevertheless, remains a problematic process; even the best software available offers only the most basic and obvious parallels. This may serve for common speech, but poetry demands more. I have studied many of the original languages of the poems I have translated here and sought assistance from linguists and poets of the appropriate races, striving to restore rhyme, stress and syllable where possible; I am confident that my work is the best currently available. However, it still falls far short of the originals, and therefore I humbly beg your pardon.

**Asari**  
Asari poetry is one of the oldest and most complex traditions in the galaxy. Its forms are generally casual, similar to free verse; the asari poet chooses her own rules and how closely they bind her. In general, however, asari poetry is long and heavily ornamented – a filigree of rhymes and imagery, words and ideas tumbling over each other in fanciful chaos. Regular meter is rare, as most asari poetry is stressed rather than syllabic, with the beats few and far between. Many poems are written by the matriarchs, in reflection upon their long lives, the galaxy and their small contribution to it, but composition is by no means an uncommon avocation among younger asari.

Its detractors call asari poems airy and frivolous, with little weight or lasting emotion to recommend them. The common criticism is that the asari take a great many words to say very little - but this is a superficial reading. Those with the patience to read beneath the obvious glitter and brilliance of asari poetry find a slow development of serious argument and theme, and a subtle blend of pride and sorrow. This is perhaps inevitable, given the asari’s technological achievement and long life-span, and the ineluctable loss of their friends among the shorter-lived.

The following example of asari poetry was translated from the work of Matriarch Liyena, who was among the party of commandos who first discovered the Citadel. It is a excerpt from a much longer work, detailing all her observations and reflections of the historic event. This particular excerpt, with the heavy alliteration and apparently random rhymes characteristic of asari poetry, describes her first encounter with a Keeper.

_... legion-limbed, limned in lurid light, bright_  
_strange the sight, slowly shifting, scuttling through corridors_  
_it ignores invaders, its intelligence inner, if insight_  
_it might mutter; maybe its mouth’s meaningless, still, silent_  
_as is its absent cerebrations. Celebrations we withhold, cold_  
_and cautious: is it cousin, competition, cattle? Do we walk_  
_the wide-wandering worlds, and witness the endless_  
_empyrean empty? Are asari alone awake?..._

**Salarian**  
Poetry is not particularly prized among the salarians; the poet is of much lesser social status than the scientist. There is nevertheless a well-established salarian poetic tradition, consisting of short poems of set syllable counts – similar to the Japanese haiku form – themed around paradox, reversal, contrast and irony. In contrast to the intricate asari forms, the salarian poetry is sharp and focused, its point made in as few words as possible.

Salarian poets revel in a forced change of perspective or the baffling of expectation. Their saying is “no tongue sharper than a poet’s”, and they compose to fit the reputation. It’s not uncommon to see salarian poetry written to criticise or lampoon another, or even offered as a trenchant eulogy to a deceased rival. While offering a constant source of incisive commentary, salarian poetry tends to sound detached and unemotional to other races – indeed, the association of romance and poetry is completely baffling to salarians.

‘ _No Doubt_ ’, the following verse, was composed by the poet Nasurn Karanen Aegohr Dos Paleon Mard. Observe the classical _kepot_ syllabic pattern of 3-7-3-5-3-7-3 and the sarcastic tone. It is one of the few salarian protests recorded in immediate response to the genophage and was widely popular about that time. Contemporary salarians continue to discuss whether Mard Paleon’s death shortly after its writing was due to his advanced age or to the actions of the Special Task Group.

_Yesterday_  
_the krogan were our heroes_  
_and today_  
_we kill their children._  
_I’m certain_  
_tomorrow’s sunrise will see_  
_us best friends._

**Turian**  
It may seem at odds with the usual idea of the turians – militaristic, practical, unsentimental – but the average turian is as comfortable with a poem as with a gun. While few turians may describe themselves as poets, poetry composition is considered an essential part of a turian’s education, and most turians have at least a few verses to their name.

The turian tendency toward hierarchy and order is no less evident in their poetry. There are one hundred distinct forms, which were codified by the illustrious Vaske Arynos long before the turians discovered the mass relays. All of these forms possess a strict trochaic catalectic rhythm – that is, the lines begin and end on a beat - but vary in details such as the rhyme scheme, length and, most importantly, theme. The subject matter of the poem dictates the form; a turian writing an erotic love poem (for which the turians are justly famed in certain circles) will choose one form, and a turian writing an appeal to the spirit of her cabal quite another. In any form, there is limited use of metaphor, but the language is extraordinarily forceful and vivid, and clarity of expression is highly valued.

It is worth noting that turian poetry has changed very little over the millennia. They do not borrow from other traditions, and additional forms have never been proposed. Instead, scholars decide in which form modern developments should be included. For example, the mass relays are now considered part of the _spalus_ form, which deals with danger and opportunity.

The following untitled poem of Vaske Arynos is considered the archetype of the _perihex_ form. As such, its subject is the interplay of duty and love, and it is comprised of sixteen lines arranged in four verses. Each line is in trochaic catalectic tetrameter – four beats and three off-beats. Each line rhymes with its counterparts in each verse; in a perfect _perihex_ , the rhyming lines may be read in turn to form verses of their own. The tale of Vaske and her dishonoured son Nyrex is a popular one for adaptation and retellings, but any turian will tell you that they prefer it in its original and purest form.

_Steady hands, unready soul_  
_Clear my order: you must die._  
_Nyrex, son, you know this too,_  
_Turn and face our shared hearts’ break._

_Blood of blood, and once a whole_  
_Words are empty, but you sigh_  
_Knowing what I’ve come to do_  
_Gazes meet. My hand you take._

_Final touches don’t console._  
_You’re resigned, you’re calm, and I_  
_Raise my gun for love of you_  
_Bullets fly for honour’s sake._

_Torn away, you leave a hole._  
_All the world is where you lie:_  
_Blood has dyed the grasses blue_  
_I’m at peace, and yet I ache._

**Krogan**  
For the krogan, poetry is the traditional art of the shaman. The shaman makes poems of all the clan’s history, their battle songs and teaching tales, and chants them for the clan alone. The oldest clans thus have the most ancient poems and treasure them fiercely. The shamans’ recitals are very private, possessing a dimension almost sacred or magical; clans have gone to war over eavesdroppers and the ‘theft’ of a poem. The forms, however, are universal, since shaman traditionally belong to the krogan as a whole.

It is not uncommon for other krogan to compose verse, but these attempts are certainly never called poetry. They are shared with one’s krantt alone and do not endure beyond one performance or so. If you have seen the viral extranet vid of a krogan on Illium trying to woo his asari girlfriend with romantic poetry, you have probably laughed – but from a scholar’s perspective, his work was quite extraordinary. He was trying to adapt this particular krogan tradition to that of asari love poetry, and given the innate differences between the two, succeeding to a degree that borders on genius. Unfortunately, I have been unable to trace him for further comment.

Urdnot Bakara – a name that needs no introduction for those familiar with current krogan affairs - offered me the high privilege of sharing in the performance of her chant. Moreover, I was requested to record her poem, and after her scrutiny, to publish a translation for the galaxy to read. “It is time,” Urdnot Bakara says, “that the galaxy hears the true voice of the krogan.” A full account will be included in my book – as well as certain of the poems I wrote in response to the event – but without hyperbole, it was one of the most extraordinary things I have ever witnessed.

At midnight we gathered in the ruins of an amphitheatre – the krogan in their hundreds, a handful of humans (including Commander Shepard), and a smattering of other races. All was silent and dark, save for the ring of fire that roared at the centre of the space. Urdnot Bakara stood within it, the flames reflected in her eyes, her drummers making another ring outside it. Then they began to beat the drums in perfect unison, sending forth the low, doubled beats of krogan hearts. The rhythm built, and then Urdnot Bakara began to chant.

More than any other tradition, krogan poetry is communal. Bereft of the atmosphere, the drumming, and her voice, the words seem simple, almost banal – but there... they were visceral, passionate, more felt than heard. The shaman leads, but it is not truly a performance to an audience so much as a shared experience. Often she called to the gathered krogan: as one, they roared back, and few of their eyes were dry. She, too, wept as she chanted, and dawn came before she was finished, before the fire burnt down, but her voice never faltered.

Here is the beginning of her chant that long night. I have marked the krogan response in bold.

_Listen, Tuchanka! Listen, my people! Listen, honoured dead, children unborn!_  
_Listen, so that you may remember! Listen, so that you may never forget!_  
_Listen, so that the memory seeps into your bones and fills your blood!_  
_Listen, so that your hearts beat to his name! Listen and remember! Mordin!_  
**_Mordin!_ **  
_He was salarian, small and soft and single-hearted, but now in death, he is krogan!_  
**_He is krogan!_ **  
_For the thunder of our children’s feet on the bones-made-dust of the unborn, he is krogan!_  
**_He is krogan!_ **  
_For the end to mothers’ mourning, for the fierceness of the future, for hope that burns like his pyre, he is krogan!_  
**_He is krogan!_ **  
_Listen, Tuchanka! Listen, my people! Listen, honoured dead, children unborn!_  
_Listen, for he was our foe! Listen, for he was my friend! Listen, for he gave us back our pride!_  
_Listen, for Tuchanka was barren, but I have seen green growth in the halls of our ancestors!_  
_Listen, so all ages shall know what I teach you! Listen and remember! Mordin!_  
**_Mordin!_ **

**Quarian**  
Quarian poetry is perhaps the most widely appreciated in the galaxy. The cynical say this is because the quarians have scavenged from other poetic traditions as they scavenge materials, and that they have no more tradition of their own than they have a homeworld. This, needless to say, is unnecessarily harsh. The developmental path from the Rannoch-era poetry to modern-day demonstrates that while quarian poetry borrows characteristics of many other cultures, these are integrated with their own graceful, fluid base form; the result is art of a high order, and certainly no mere pastiche.

Quarian poets are much rarer than those of other cultures, and their output is typically very low indeed. This is not surprising, given the busy and practical nature of quarian daily life. What may surprise is that they are highly treasured. The quarians are a close-knit race who cherish their shared culture; poetry is therefore shared through all the Migrant Fleet and known by all quarians. Every quarian child can recite all the poems of their people – a feat of memory equivalent to every six-year old human child knowing the complete works of Shakespeare by heart – nor do they readily forget as adults. Thus, a young quarian may return from their Pilgrimage with a poem to offer and be accepted as an adult. It is expected that they will still work for the good of the Flotilla, but they are primarily a poet. Kami’Xura vas Qwib-Qwib, one of my correspondents, tells me that this has happened only thrice since the quarians left Rannoch.

Stylistically, quarian poetry is flowing and relatively unstructured. For the most part, it is what humans term ‘free verse’; alliteration is preferred to rhyme, and regular meter (usually an appropriation from turian poetry) occurs in only a fraction of poems. Thematically, like the asari, quarian poets tends to reflect on their lives and upon the sights they’ve seen. Occasionally they offer poems as gifts to commemorate events in the lives of their friends, which is considered a high honour for the recipient. According to Kami’Xura, it is something of a racial tragedy that there are no poets currently among the quarian population; the Reaper War, peace with the geth and home-coming to Rannoch will not be immortalised in verse by any quarian who lived to see them.

The following was composed on Pilgrimage by Kel’Shanna vas Revay nar Teris. She was the first quarian who returned to the Migrant Fleet as a poet – although, by contemporary accounts, she served primarily as a mercenary during her Pilgrimage. This was her first work – entitled only ‘ _Pilgrimage_ ’ - and while most critics agree it is much clumsier than her later verses, it remains perhaps the most beloved poem of the quarians’ most beloved poet.

_After leaving_  
_the ship of my ancestors, the home_  
_and safety of my childhood_  
_I will venture_  
_past the limits of my life._

_After family_  
_the voices I may echo, the babble_  
_of strangers and alien silhouettes_  
_I will find_  
_uncertain and exciting._

_After walking_  
_on living ground, where insects_  
_hum and electronics are silent_  
_I will remember_  
_the homeworld I hope to see._

_After proving_  
_that who I am is worthy_  
_of home, of a place among family_  
_I will return_  
_to the cradle of worlds._

_After time adrift_  
_among open stars, along tides_  
_of light and through shoals of dust_  
_I will return_  
_to where I began._

**Elcor**  
Elcor speech is nuanced by emitting pheromones, by extremely subtle body language, and by subvocalised ultrasound; so too is their poetry. In some ways, then, it more closely resembles dance to the human mind – indeed, it is perhaps the closest art to dance that the elcor have developed. Unfortunately, there are barriers that prevent it being shared with non-elcor.

Firstly, the translations provided by elcor voice processing software serve well enough for everyday communication, but cannot handle the shifting layers of meaning, subtlety and ambiguity of elcor poetry. They tend to stutter, trying to offer at least five prefacing statements to any given line.

Secondly, elcor poetry has no written form, and recording it is unthinkable by elcor cultural mores. Poetry is considered an individual’s art – only the poet truly knows what was intended by a poem, and therefore only the poet has the ability to perform his work. This means that no poem, however great, outlives its creator. This ephemeral quality, the elcor say, is central to the beauty of poetry. (Incidentally, it is also the reason that many elcor found the production of _Elcor Hamlet_ somewhat baffling.) Many elcor will travel a long distance to attend a recital by a famed poet, especially if he or she is reaching the end of her life and it may be the last chance to hear them.

I cannot, then, offer an example of elcor poetry to be translated and read – all I can give you is what the elcor have told me, and my own experiences attending elcor recitals. The forms of elcor poetry have changed very little over their history – passed orally from one poet to another - although there are definite trends that come and go. Rhyme and rhythm are not the tools of elcor poetry, except where newer poets have experimented with asari or turian traditions. In these cases they are borrowing from the poems of hundreds of years ago, since it takes time for the conservative elcor to adapt to new developments. There are instead seven widely accepted ‘stances’, and infinite permutations thereof allowed by the non-verbal components of elcor speech. The poems are, without exception, of epic-length, with recitations taking about three hours at their shortest. Non-elcor audience members are graciously welcomed, but the experience may be dull for even the most avid poetry enthusiast. The verbal component is all that other species can hear, and it is the least important element of elcor poetry. I hope that one day we shall do better.

**Batarian**  
The batarian culture is heavily shrouded in secrecy, and we know little of it, save for the claim that slavery of other races is apparently integral. If the batarians have any art form close to poetry, they appear unlikely to share it.

**Drell**  
Drell poetry has the galactic reputation of being impossible to understand. It is too fragmentary, many argue, usually in tones of bitter frustration. It’s impossible to work out exactly what the poet is talking about at any particular time.

The drell themselves typically express polite confusion at this criticism; their poetry is perfectly transparent to them. The many interwoven lines of narrative, argument or imagery characteristic of drell poetry reflects how they think and their tendency to solipsism. When the past is as clear and vivid as the present and any chance word may summon up a perfect memory, the ability to keep track of several simultaneous trains of thought is surely a necessity.

The drell thus draw less distinction between poetry and prose than most races – alternatively, one could say that poetic expression comes naturally to them. Poetry is not particularly revered, because every drell is a poet. Some merely choose to share their thoughts with others.

The following poem – a relatively simple one, with approximately five lines of thought - was shared with me by a drell who prefers to remain nameless, his reasons for the gift unexplained. Nevertheless, I am profoundly grateful for his generosity in allowing me to translate his work and share the expression of something that obviously affected him profoundly with the galaxy. You may also notice something of a quarian influence in its structure; this is not uncommon among the poetry of younger drell.

_Sunset-coloured eyes, defiant_  
_in the scope. Her lips_  
_move: “How dare you?” –_  
_Father speaks the memory_  
_and Mother smiles – her curved lips_  
_are bloodstained and still._

_“Guide this one_  
_to where the traveller never tires, the lover_  
_never leaves,” Father speaks the prayer_  
_and falls silent. He cannot_  
_fire, he lays down his gun._

_She watches. Her eyes_  
_are the colour of the sky_  
_when the sun dies to darkness._

_I take up the recitation. Kalahira_  
_walks through our home. Mother falls_  
_silent, as they laugh. Father’s breath rattles_  
_and ceases._

_We danced crazy, laughed. I ran_  
_and hid. Little air in the closet_  
_and I cannot breathe. Only listen._  
_Father finds me there_  
_in the locked room and we embrace. Silvered,_  
_the light on her blade, on his rifle,_  
_on the gun cold in my hands._

_Father’s hand, heavy_  
_on my shoulder. Cooling in mine._  
_Sunset-coloured eyes, forever defiant_  
_the sky their reflection_  
_as she sinks beneath._

**Hanar**  
Like the hanar’s speech, their poetry is also, of course, coded patterns of emitted light. For the observer without a translator, the effect is either subtly beautiful, or – as the crude put it – a bunch of jellyfish flickering at each other. With a translator, sadly, it is still a sonorous, polite confusion. It is only through the drell that we have garnered any understanding of hanar poetry. What they have translated for us probably reveals more about drell poetry than hanar.

If the finer nuances of hanar poetry escape us, still, there is much we do know. The poetry of most other races is individual: that is, many races recite poetry to an audience, and krogan ‘audiences’ are participants, but the poems are composed by a single poet. Hanar poetry, conversely, is more choral: the hanar both compose and recite in groups. It is not a true hanar poem if less than three poets are involved in it, and the hanar still speak with awe of the legendary poem of the thirteenth Nyahir, which was the work of almost two hundred hanar.

Nyahir, for those unfamiliar with hanar culture, is the celebration of the Enkindlers’ gift of speech to the hanar, and poetry is its traditional centre. Apart from the usual performances of hanar poetry, where poets may speak in turn or in unison, the hanar also engage in poetry duels. Teams improvise poems, which the opposing hanar must answer without rehearsal or time to compose, and such debates may last for days – in perfect iambic meter and varying rhyme schemes - before one side falters. The winners are rightly lauded by the hanar.

The following poem – a short, simple work, featuring the poet triad known collectively as Shining Words – was translated by my drell correspondent. It is a short formal composition rather than an improvised work, drawing comparisons between oceanic trenches, the sky, and space, which are all visualised as oceans – not an uncommon metaphor among the hanar, just as any pull may be described as a tide or current. I have made use of separated columns to indicate the three different speakers – words on the same line are spoken at the same time.

_Beneath the depths, where light_  
_is lost, the endless night._  
_Above, the distant sky_  
_Its foaming clouds break high._  
_Beyond the darkest sea_  
_The stranger-worlds float free._  
_And all is silent there.                     And all is storming there.             And all’s surprising there._  
_One cannot swim in air_  
_The darkest sea is death_  
_The abyss crushes breath._  
_And yet, that ocean calls                 And yet, that ocean calls               And yet, that ocean calls_  
_A tide that fast enthrals                  A tide of storms and squalls          A tide to make one small_  
_This one will go, and find_  
_This one will go, and find_  
_This one will go, and find_  
_A life beyond its kind.                    A life beyond its kind.                    A life beyond its kind._

**Vorcha**  
The poetry of the vorcha is one of the galaxy’s most intriguing literary mysteries. Only five poems are known, all of which were found on an unsigned datapad in a clinic on Omega. Surveillance shows an unidentified vorcha entering the words, then fleeing before the doctor returned. Attempts to trace the writer proved futile, given the number of vorcha on Omega and the blurriness of the footage. Reactions of vorcha, when asked about the subject, range from apathy to suspicion and outright hostility – the latter usually when invited to replicate the feat and express themselves in poetical form. Sadly, no other authentic vorcha poetry has ever been found, although several hoaxes have been attempted.

As one might expect, the five poems (known collectively as the Vorcha Chapbook) display limited vocabulary, heavy repetition, and nothing resembling formal or coherent structure. Nevertheless, experts have agreed that they are poems, and poems of value beyond the mere novelty of being composed by vorcha.

_Untitled 1_ is the first poem recorded in the Vorcha Chapbook. Composed entirely of fourteen monosyllables – several of which are only grammatical variants of another – it nevertheless makes a very real protest and provides worthwhile insight into the author’s psyche. Whether that author is at all representative of the vorcha species as a whole is an entirely different question.

_Hear me. I speak._  
_My words are real._  
_Hear my words._  
_My words are me._  
_Hear me. Words hurt._  
_Why hear my hurt?_  
_I am_  
_my words are_  
_my hurt is_  
_me._

**Prothean**  
Archaeologists, thus far, have been more interested in unearthing the technology and biology of this vanished race than their poetry – a sad loss indeed. The Prothean Javik, who would doubtless be able to shed some light on this fascinating subject, has so far refused all fifty of my requests for an interview or correspondence.

**Volus**  
Volus poetry is a close analogue of humanity’s nursery rhymes – simple verses intended to entertain children, with the expectation that the adult will mature out of them. For that reason, most critics dismiss it as easily as the volus do. Nevertheless, in its own way volus poetry is almost as universal in appeal as quarian; the classics of volus poetry will win at least a smile from all but the most hidebound of audiences.

Like nursery rhymes, then, volus poetry features a sing-song rhythm, obvious rhymes and part-rhymes, and tends to be short. It is nonsense verse, full of absurdities and impossibilities. Many feature a semi-legendary volus whose name can be translated as Plenty or Wealth – although Bounty is the most common translation - a sort of folk hero with the strength of a charging krogan, the wisdom of an asari matriarch, the cleverness of a salarian, and the beauty and financial acumen that can only be volus. Although Bounty is officially the sole province of volus children, mentioning him to almost any volus will gain you a fond, nostalgic chuckle – and in some rare cases, a discount.

The following is a fair example of the genre, demonstrating both the typically jaunty and imperfect rhythm and the logical inconsistencies of most of the Bounty poems. Modern scholars are a little puzzled by the theme of ‘rolling’ which is often linked to Bounty; all they can say with certainty is that it first appeared five hundred years ago. I include this particular one not only for its merits as exemplar, but because it was the first piece of volus poetry I ever encountered. It still makes me smile.

_Bounty’s rolling up the hill_  
_The more he rolls, the more he’s still._  
_Bounty’s rolling up the stair_  
_He’s by himself, and he’s a pair._  
_Bounty’s rolling in the sea_  
_Getting dry and making tea._  
_Bounty’s rolling on the sun_  
_Getting cool and having fun._  
_Bounty’s rolling his money away_  
_Getting richer every day_  
_Bounty’s rolling, rolling far_  
_And so should you, whoever you are._

**_Conclusion_ **

There is much more I could say – and have, in my upcoming book – but in the interests of brevity, I shall keep my conclusion short. I hope that you have enjoyed this brief overview of the different poetry of different species, and that I have piqued your interest in the subject. Anything interesting in my paper is the talent of the original poets shining through my clumsy translations.


End file.
